DoubleEdged Dagger
by Phoenix Belfalas
Summary: First in a series of short vignettes, ‘Bad Faith’, in which the elder Malfoy reflects upon his son and his love for Draco.


Title – Double-Edged Dagger

Authoress – Phoenix Tears

Summary – First in a series of short vignettes, 'Bad Faith', in which the elder Malfoy reflects upon his son and his love for Draco.

Rating – PG, somewhat angsty.

Warning – Mentions of slash, though not Lucius on Draco. Don't like – don't read.

Disclaimer – I own nothing, except for this plot. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling, including Draco, Lucius, and Blaise. Although I do wish I owned them…

Authoress' Note – I am a citizen of America, so pardon the spellings if they are not strictly United Kingdom type English… you know, with 'colour' or 'color'…

Feedback – Of course, as for every writer, questions, thoughts, and constructive criticism are all greatly appreciated. Thank you, and enjoy.

~*~

_Double-edged ~ dou·ble·edged –_

_            1. Having two cutting edges_

_            2. Effective or capable of being interpreted in two ways_

_            3. Having dual purposes_

~*~

            He's so much like me. Well, then again, of course he is. He is my son. He is my heir, my hope, my light, and my life. My dragon.

            He is Draco Malfoy, and I am his father, Lucius Malfoy.

            Draconis Kael Malfoy. A strong fighter, a brave dragon.

            Lucius Zephyr Malfoy. A placid wind, a bringer of light.

            Ironic, isn't it? My very name is the essence of light. My very name means a bringer of light. Yet I am a servant of the Dark, bound to it by blood and heritage.

            All Malfoys' names are chosen with care. Each one is specifically fitted for their bearer – their own Malfoy. Only one thing is the same. Malfoy. Bad faith.

            I sometimes wonder if it possible to be so sinfully similar to another person, and act so sinfully like another person, and be so sinfully identical to another person. Even when that other person is your son, or in his case, his father.

            From his prominent, aristocratic cheekbones that generations of pureblooded ancestors before me have passed down, to the platinum silver hair that falls in silken, soft strands around his pale face, from the clever, dangerous ice silver eyes, to his abnormally moonlight pale skin, Draco looks scandalously like I did, when I was his age.

            When I was a Hogwarts seventh-year, I was a Slytherin prefect, Captain of the Quidditch Team, and most sought after wizard in Hogwarts.

            Draco is a Slytherin prefect, Captain of the Quidditch Team, and most sought after wizard at Hogwarts. I supposed some things just don't change.

            But it stuns me to see how alike my son and I are. Though I hope he will never have to become what I am – a cold, albeit beautiful, shell of emotionless matter. The only emotion I harbour is for him, my dear Dragon, though I would abhor to have him know.

            I treated him with a distant love. When he was younger, I made my paternal affections more known. But as he grew up, entered Hogwarts, and started to face the realities of life, I knew I should prepare him for the worst. Lord Voldemort would most definitely want to initiate my son into his highest ranks – no matter how much I loathed to deny it, I did not want to see my only heir become a cold, killing machine like I had been made into – and make Draco one of his most prized supporters.

            I knew, without thinking, Draco would refuse the Dark Mark. He was far too full of pride for his own good, I would tell him, far too arrogant and calculating.

            I remember once, when Draco was six, and he had mastered all the charms and spells a second year Hogwarts student two times his age should know, he had been so proud of himself. Draco had always been a fast learner –in etiquette, morals, magic, and Quidditch. He was already learning some advanced Potions making – Draco always did have a special talent for potions, just like Severus – that fourth years were learning, and he had gone around the Manor laughing cheerfully. He brought me a bottled flask of the potion he had just bottled, a Bone Mending Tonic. Exceptionally useful for regrowing bones – much better and less painful than Skele-Gro.

            "Father! Father!" Little Draco ran into my study, his Basilisk hide boots padding softly on the Persian imported carpet. "Look what I made this afternoon! Uncle Severus said that I did very well today, Father!" 

             'Daddy' had stopped being used at age four. 'Father' was much more appropriate term for a Malfoy to use, even if he was young.

            I was feeling in a good mood that afternoon – the Ministry had given me my second promotion in a year. Ha! The Muggle-loving fool, Arthur Weasley, hadn't even received a promotion yet in five years. The last one he received was to the Head of the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, and that was half a decade ago.

            Sweeping my angelic little dragon into my arms easily, I sat him down on my lap and said fondly to him, "My dragon, would you like to tell Father what you made?"

            "It's a Bone Mending Tonic, Father."

            "What are the ingredients in it, my dragon?"

            Draco scrunched his face up adorably in deep thought, and began reciting, "Tears of a phoenix, three ounces of shredded boomslang skin, one teaspoon of powdered, no, crushed dragon scales, dried petals of the white gillyflower, a cup of minced newt's eyes, and powdered manticore claw. Is that right, Father?"

            I smiled with pride and joy at my little six-year-old son knowing the ingredients for a complicated Bone Mending Tonic by heart. At the age of four, he had even known the different between sliced and shredded dragonhide. Even Severus was impressed.

            "Wonderful, Draco. What would you like as a reward, my precious?"

            He thought for a while, big silver eyes wide like a doe's, appallingly long, almost feminine, silver lashes framing them nicely. "Can you fly with me tomorrow afternoon, Father, please?" Draco's face pleaded up at me, his lips threatening to twitch into a pout.

            My heart nearly broke at the way my son pleaded for me to spend time with him, to teach him how to fly. My son nearly had to beg me to spend time with him.

            Naturally, I spent all of that afternoon flying with him.

            It was probably the most innocent, carefree time I can recall with Draco.

            As he grew up, I tried to become distant, colder, and harsher. I tested Draco's endurance with Imperio, but never Crucio. I could not bear to think of my perfect dragon being tortured, in such white-hot, searing, unbearable pain.

            Malfoys were not meant to know pain. Even if we did experience it, we showed no sign of feeling it. That is what our masks are for.

            By age ten, Draco could throw off Imperio for over an hour. By thirteen, he could throw it off completely, and not feel any pain. By fifteen, he could keep it off and perform the exact opposite of the command, without ever flinching.

            I was pleased, naturally.

            When Draco was accepted onto the Slytherin Quidditch Team, I was overjoyed. Contrary to popular belief, I did not buy my son's way onto the team. He did have natural talent as a Seeker – he was light, cunning, fast, and sharp. He had a knack for spotting things that most people didn't. I did, however, buy new brooms for the whole Slytherin team in my bout of happiness. Unfortunately, Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die, had to be better than my precious dragon. 

            When Draco was made a prefect, I was proud. Even though Severus did favor him, and McGonagall, Flitwick, Vector, Sinistra, Devriato, and all the other Hogwarts professors do admit that Draco is an exceptional student, Dumbledore was different case altogether. He knew of my background as a Death Eater, and would have no greater pleasure than finding evidence to earn me a life sentence in Azkaban. So why would he accept my son as the House prefect, one out of only four chosen per year for a house? 

            Perhaps it was because the blubbering, Muggle-loving Headmaster knew that not many other Slytherins were as talented and suited for the job as Draco. The other options, of course, being Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Henry Nott, Lilika Avery, and who else not. If my son had not been chosen among those simple-minded Housemates, I would surely have been quite ashamed.

            One day, almost a week before Yule, I received a letter from Draco. That was not unusual – we corresponded regularly and maintained a close relationship, even when he was at school. I sent him sweets and other presents, small, trifling reminders of home, under the pretext of Narcissa. I was mortified for the other members of his House to know how much Daddy-dearest still doted on him.

            But this letter was different. It shocked me quite a bit, and I realised just how much my young dragon was growing up.

_Dear Father,_

            I trust you are well? I miss you terribly. I will come home for Christmas Break, naturally. I would not even think of spending the winter vacation at Hogwarts, with none but the sodding Boy-Who-Lived and his Gryffindor lovebirds flanking him all the time. I would much rather spend time in your company, at the Manor.

            In your last letter, which contained the Belgium Honeydukes Truffles, – they were simply scrumptious, by the way, thank you – you mentioned that I would be allowed to bring home a close friend. I have developed quite an intimate relationship with one Blaise Zabini. I am sure you will find my acquaintance wonderfully charming.

            Enclosed I have sent with Archimedes a cloak I bought for Mother and an inkwell I got for you in Hogsmeade. Its hunter green colour reminded me of your favourite robes.

_Sincerely, Draco Kael Malfoy_

            The cloak was quite lovely – an expensive pale pink trimmed in ermine fur, and Cissa simply loved it. I quite enjoyed using the inkwell he bought for me as well. In response to his letter, I wrote with it, and found out, to my great pleasure, that it did not smear, unlike other inkbottles.

            On the other hand, I was quite upset that Draco did not enclose the details of Blaise Zabini. I knew the Zabinis to be a wealthy, noble family, as well as pureblooded, but they were not on the Dark Side. For that matter, I believed that they were neutral, as far as loyalties lay. But I knew nothing of their child, or perhaps, children.

            I was expecting a sensual, curvy blonde, perhaps, or a coy vixen that had caught Draco's eye. Have I mentioned? Draco has a favourable eye for pretty, exquisite things, much like I have. Perhaps an engagement could even be arranged, if Blaise was pure and talented enough. I was hoping she was well mannered and could match Draco perfectly – match him, but not overshadow. I was expecting a gracious, pretty young witch.

            I was not, however, expecting quite a masculine young wizard with silken black hair and stunning violet eyes. 

I had no idea my son was homosexual.

            At the annual Yule Celebration at the Manor, I had begun to find the gossip going on in the ballroom somewhat tedious, and set out to find Draco. I had seen him the day before, but he went partying that night, and hadn't come back until this afternoon.

            Recalling Draco's favourite relaxation place as the outdoor pond that held rare aquatic creatures in it, flanked on the four cardinal sides by marble seraphs that let clear, crystalline water flow into the pool, I set out. When I was rounding a corner, the minute lawn faeries brushing aside the prickly bushes for me, I saw my son – my silver haired, flawless dragon – in a tight, passionate lip lock with another male.

            Just then, I realised that 'Blaise' was a multi-gendered name.

            The boy was beautiful, surely, but not as perfect as Draco. He had glossy raven hair that fell above the nape of his neck, and was streaked in the night with blue-black highlights. His skin was moonlight pale, just like Draco's, and their two skin tones complemented one another's. Striking eyes were an inky violet color splashed with blue cobalt around the irises. No wonder my son had found fancy in him.

            I confronted my son about this, a few days after the Yule Celebration, when his male lover had gone out for a quick canter with the horses. I asked Draco, politely and with due grace, of course, about his lover. Draco merely responded with his customary Malfoy mask in place, but I could tell by his smouldering silver-gray eyes, that he was not pleased to have me ask. "It does not matter the sexuality of who I prefer to sleep with, or not, does it, Father? It does not matter who I choose to bring home over winter break, it does not matter if that person is male or female. Because we all know, that when I am of age, I will not be able to marry who I love, anyway. Malfoys do not know love, for love is a double-edged emotion, and Malfoys do not play with double-edged emotions," Draco recited in his clear, smooth baritone. I dismissed him soon after.

            I told myself, I did not care for Draco. I would prepare him for life, and dismiss him coolly, but without feeling. Malfoys were creatures of ice and stone and beauty. We were above such petty matters of the world.

            But I was lying to myself. And I knew it.

            I knew that I would never love another being as much as I loved my son.

            Even Narcissa is merely a close acquaintance to me. She never was a lover. We were only friends, a front for lovers, perhaps, but we never cared for each other. Our union was brought along to create an heir for the Malfoy line and fortune – not for love. Never for love. It was not as if I had neglected her, anyway. She had her share of illicit lovers. It was not as if I did not know of them. She spent money lavishly, on petty, effeminate things like taffeta gowns and pure gold jewelry and porcelain dolls and glass figurines that adorned the mantelpiece in the dining room. It was not as if I did not have enough money to provide for it.

            Narcissa planned parties beautifully, and flattered people ever so nicely, and was a beautiful wife and considerate friend. I could go to her with my troubles. Sometimes.

            But she was never there for Draco.

            Oh, she caressed him when he was young and rocked him to sleep when he was a baby and bought him expensive gifts – even more frequently than I did – perhaps to ease her conscience, but never gave him any maternal love. She was not there to soothe his tears when he grew up, or explain to him the horrors of life when he was adolescent.

            The one thing I cared for more than my life was my son, and he never received the proper caring, nurturing, love, a child was supposed to receive.

            However, an heir of a Malfoy does not need love. He is above such petty things of the world. Love is for the weak – it is a deceiving, double-edged emotion.

            Malfoys toy with double-edged daggers, but never use them. Why hurt yourself?

            But when the mediwitch at the wizarding hospital brought me a beautiful baby boy, with wispy strands of silver-blonde hair, pale cobalt eyes, and a light smattering of freckles across pale, flawless white cheeks, so lovely and perfect, I picked up that double-edged dagger, and have been toying with it ever since.

Authoress Note: Click that little button down there and review. Pretty please? With a cherry on top? And whipped cream, and chocolate chips, and sprinkles, and… *Blushes* Sorry. I'm in one of those ice-cream-ey types of moods, I suppose.


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